


Red Ruby Wine

by wooyoungies



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Arson??, Blowjobs, Dance Student Wooyoung, Dark Academia, Fingering, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Rimming, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Supernatural Elements, They Go To A Prestigious Music School, Treasure Hunting, Violin Player San, Wooyoung Is Kind of An Asshole, lots of lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wooyoungies/pseuds/wooyoungies
Summary: Everything screamed old money, expensive wine parties, socialites, and peculiar doors. San watched as Virginia creepers stuck polished, red ruby nails into cathedrals and wrapped arms around any shape of a neo-gothic reminisce, swallowing structures whole.OrSan gets into Ashira University, the most prestigious music school in the world, as a third year transfer student on a scholarship. All he has is his violin, music, and wit. He soon finds himself wrapped up with the world's most elite students and children of the wealthy in rather unique circumstances, and he finds something powerful within campus grounds. Oh, and he meets Wooyoung. Rich, charming, life altering Wooyoung.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74





	1. Whispers in heaven of a red cloud on the ground

_  
**“If we walk far enough," says Dorothy, "we shall sometime come to someplace.” - The Wizard of Oz**  
_

Jung Wooyoung learned the hard way that love was meant for those who hoped. 

And, that hope was meant for those who believed in love. So, in a sick way, the two were destined for each other. 

He wondered how such humans always had hope. This hope that kept them driving and barreling forward. A golden flicker of a flame being blown out on a birthday cake, rusted wine light washing over them as they stayed up all night until dawn brought her rays to wash over them through lancet windows. Clinks of lucent would shine in their eyes when they would laugh, their carousel carnival hands clapping together.

Wooyoung didn’t believe in destiny either, so he guesses that was saying _something_ for the two ‘cursed’ words. Hongjoong often called him an idiot for not believing in fate when their whole universe ran off the idea and streamed out couples that were meant to be one ‘for eons and through cosmos’. 

“We live in a world meant for soulmates,” Hongjoong said with a frown, tossing the basketball to Jongho on the couch, “how could you not believe in fate… or destiny?”

“I just don’t.”

Jongho mused, “So our platonic soulmate marks don’t mean anything?” This statement was dangerous but they let it slide, much like their Mulberry silk across foyers.

“Coincidence, universal alignment, product of environment given,” Wooyoung listed, making a shot to the nailed in basketball goal to the cathedral brick. It swished perfectly and Jongho snorted. The rest only ignored him and continued to play on their instruments or fiddle around with the mirror attached to the wall. It was different now, they all knew it. They could feel the absence of not only Wooyoung turning into an opaque thought; they could feel it since _he_ had left in a flurry of composer scores and iron fists. And that was the end of the conversation.

Every time Wooyoung denied the existence of something larger than life tying the six of them (that’s how the books and older generation swatted it in their brains anyway) his tattoo would twinge- like it was guilty of something. Their platonic mark on all six of their hands, fitting snugly between the junction of their thumb and pointer finger was only a constant reminder of what he didn’t believe in anymore. The tiny figure eight that had sharpened edges made them feel in unison, as if it was in the shape of an hourglass too. It was telling Wooyoung that time was running out. Wooyoung tried not to look at it too much.

_“As if there were people out there who were made to be in your life, Wooyoung. Soulmates can fall apart like the dust around us and so can your dancing. To believe that you six are meant to be in each other’s life forever because of ‘fate’? How ridiculous can you be?”_

His father’s words are slices through the pads of his dancer feet that carried him to Ashira University, and it’s ammo that he uses against himself whenever he needs the reminder to not attach himself to silly things. Though, if that were entirely true, he wouldn’t be sitting here with them still, laughing at their jokes, pretending he was okay, and spending free time in their arms. So, Wooyoung doesn’t really know if he learned the hard way about love and hope. 

It was easy to lie- almost too easy, for some. When all you do is dream, when you hope that you will never hope again, the process of webbing lies into the constellation of Caelum where he was the engraver’s chisel becomes second nature. Wooyoung began to believe he was okay, that he wasn’t scribbling linocuts of his own name into a gravestone that sat shrouded in fog and desolate croaks of broken wishes. He wasn’t good at feelings so he just lied. It was always easier that way. 

When all someone has ever known is the loss of hope, the danger of letting happiness and things that were too good to be true into their life...well, it always felt like it was going to be ripped right from your hands that should have been closed into tight fists.

Then, Choi San, their eighth platonic soulmate, came spinning in with his figure eight tattoo shining blindly like him, doing a curtsey right in front of Wooyoung’s nose. Just to say that the burning star had been there waiting for him all along. Wooyoung wanted to take his hand, wanted to be _hopeful_ , wanted to hold him like how he holds ballet barres and violin bows and-

His father would be ashamed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


San should have known that the most prestigious music university out there required uniforms. 

“ _Uniforms?_ ” he said to the man leading him up to his new dorm room for the semester. San looked down at the shiny marbled floors then up at the high wooded ceilings; the spotless railing that spun like sand falling out of an hourglass winked back. San sniffed the air discreetly.

_Wow, even their dorm buildings smell like old money and wine._

“Of course”- the dude (he could not remember his name for the life of him, he couldn’t get a good look at his name tag) said briskly as they climbed up more stairs- “what were you expecting? We, Ashira, are a private university.”

“I didn’t... I haven’t-”

“-the university provides you with several.”

_Okay then._

San pictured himself perched on the fancy bell tower in the courtyards and then he imagined flinging himself off dramatically. 

_“Oh look!”_ the students would say, _“the new kid came and couldn’t even last one day because someone was short with him!”_

San tried to remind himself that this wasn’t high school and that he was a third-year college student, next year would be his _final_ year of college. He wasn’t a clumsy kid that so desperately wanted to be loved by everyone around him anymore, he didn’t need it. San had his violin and the melody that never stopped playing in his head; a soft, ballerina, pirouetting phrase, that kept him grounded as she spun tales. San let her dance and play in his mind as he tried to grasp himself down back to the stairs they were on. He was so scared of floating away one day because that would mean leaving behind his poor music box. And his violin. 

The ground felt steady.

They finally got to the third floor and the guy (maybe a student now that San thinks about it- he was really tall) handed him a bronze key, and for the first time, the man smiled to reveal eyes that sparkled with deceitful charm. “Welcome. Don’t get too comfortable, you _look_ of scholarship and these kids will eat you alive.”

San stared back, blankly, not even sure how to reply without sounding defensive.

“Scholarship students get in for their sheer talent and most of these kids get in because of their money. You’re now a threat and in the playing field.”

San frowned because _wow_ that wasn’t something you tell new students within an hour of meeting them. “But classes aren’t a competition?”

“Recommendations are. Being here isn’t enough to promise you a job when you graduate, but a rec from your professors is,” Mingi smiled, but it seemed sour.

“They will do anything to drag you down. So, thank god for uniforms right? I’m Mingi.”

San tried not to let his face flush in embarrassment, maybe anger too, and he kept his face impossibly straight. San had this motto, to never let himself look at the shoes of those who thought they were above him. San believed that only slammed him down to the cold unforgiving earth and showed his fatal flaw. He had talent, he _deserved_ it. He glanced down to Mingi’s hand and saw that he had a platonic soulmate tattoo. The tattoo was so faint, almost obsolete. San couldn’t even tell what it used to be. 

His eyes slipped down to his own, a tiny figure eight with sharpened edges that reminded him of an hour glass. He let his finger trace over it in habit and his fingers covered the mark. A part of San was excited to start this new journey and the incredible privilege of being here, but a part of him was dreading the idea that his platonic soulmate _and_ soulmate, _could_ be here on this very campus. San had never had a friend before and even though your platonic soulmate was supposed to be the one who understood you the most- he couldn’t imagine them liking San for who he was. He might end up like Mingi, a faded mark that people could look upon in shame.

San wondered if Mingi’s warning for him about rich college kids tainting your image was just the story of his own downfall and untraceable mark.

Mingi guided him to his room and he took the key from San’s hand to open the door for him, which is probably the only kind thing he had done so far. 

_Room 1117_

San tried to keep his face even, poised, as he took in the room around him. 

Huh, so upperclassmen _do_ get rooms to themselves. 

San couldn’t even imagine his old college giving anyone that kind of privilege. Their chipped tan walls and water-stained ceilings doubled with two beds had nothing on what was before San’s eyes. His old college was just creaky buildings, ugly sidewalks, and dead grass, but _here_ was nothing but beautiful. Even though it was winter, flowers still bloomed on bushes and fountains were still spraying water upon statued goddesses.

The room was so… open. A large glass window stretched from ceiling to bottom on the opposite side of the room, lighting up his bed and sporting a dash of rainbows that leaped over the mounds of white sheets and pillows. San looked down at the floors- cherry oak that had been polished and waxed over.

“Jesus Christ,” San said with awe.

“Nope, just Mingi.”

_So he has humor_

San found the time to scowl at him and he let his hand drift up to touch the beige shelves attached to the wall for storage.

“It’s just me?”

Mingi nodded. “Upperclassmen are typically known to be stressed and a roommate tossed in wouldn’t help very much. Students hurting themselves wouldn’t be a great image-”

San was almost suspicious of how perfect the grand Ashira seemed to be. Besides the semi-rude students- he glanced at Mingi with his eyes narrowed. Mingi only shrugged and gestured to the uniforms on his bed.

“You don’t have to wear them on Saturdays or Sundays by the way.”

Today was Sunday; San wanted to get here a bit earlier so he had time to adjust and maybe look around the campus to prepare himself for classes but the bus had run late, of course. It was four o’clock so he still had time to explore but he had maybe two hours of daylight left. He wasn’t for sure that two hours would be enough- the campus was _massive_ and dense.

“Nice.” San glanced at Mingi. “Is there a campus map…?”

Mingi laughed. “No. Good luck finding one that doesn’t leave out random buildings or one that isn’t from the 1900s.”

“So how do I find my classes?” he questioned, a slight fear wavering in his voice.

He scratched his head, a slight face of sympathy. “I kinda just… found them, I guess.”

“You guess?!” San exclaimed, pulling on his sweater a little tighter in anxiety.

“Just ask someone, dude, I dunno! You’re junior so shouldn’t you know how to work around this kind of stuff?”

Why did the university hire someone completely useless when it came to welcoming transfer students?

San groaned, ignoring Mingi. The only thing he could do now was to go out on his own and try to settle in before starting class literally _tomorrow._ He felt the butterflies in his stomach take dive in hiding and he looked down at his violin case that was sitting impassively by the door.

_You didn’t forget about me now, did you?_

San pulled some of his luggage to the side of the room so he could unpack later and he tossed his phone on the bed. Mingi grabbed a set of matches from the shelf and he struck one in quick motion; San screamed and fell back on the bed to clutch his chest. Mingi screamed too.

“ _W-What_ is your issue?!” Mingi yelled, frozen by a fireplace that San did _not_ notice before.

“I thought… I- thought you were gonna set my room on fire,” he finished lamely, now understanding that he was just lighting the fireplace for warmth… for San.

“You thought I was going to set you on _fire?_ ”

San still had his fingers wrapped up in his sweater close to his chest and he breathed out in a splutter. “You _said_ people would eat me alive and view me as a threat so I thought you were going to”- he gulped staring at Mingi who looked incredulous- “eliminate the threat.”

Mingi lit the fire and he glared at San. “You’re not gonna last here.”

  
  
  


San convinced Mingi to show him around.

“It’s only fair since you almost killed me,” he said taking a sip of his ridiculously good coffee. San pulled his lips back from the cup and brought it close to his face to study the contents because he was convinced that it had sugar imported from heaven. 

Mingi scoffed. “I should be charging you.”

“To do your job?” San asked, looking at the man with thick eyebrows raised. Mingi only narrowed his eyes and scowled. “I don’t _have_ to show you around.”

The campus was too big for Mingi to show in two hours but he agreed that he would show San where his classes were at least. San managed to bribe him by buying him coffee from the mini coffee shop that was tucked behind a tasteful door in the lobby of their dorm building. San would have never noticed it unless Mingi had pointed it out to him.

“It’s literally behind some random door down here! How am I supposed to know there is a secret not-so-secret coffee shop?”

Mingi had agreed in a grumble to help and even assisted San in unpacking some of his things. Even though Mingi refused to help him fold and he just tossed things in a pile in the large dresser. 

Despite Mingi being initially stiff and kind of rude, he was really good at showing San shortcuts around campus and explaining what some of the buildings had inside. San tried to hide his amazement at the ancient structures around him. Everything screamed old money, expensive wine parties, socialites, and peculiar doors. San watched as Virginia creepers stuck polished, red ruby nails into cathedrals and wrapped arms around any shape of a neo-gothic reminisce, swallowing structures whole.

San knew that what he was getting into was fucking crazy, absolutely out there- but this university was worth it. He knew he was a prodigy on the violin, he knew he was talented, but seeing some of the way students passed by with their noses in the air, he had a feeling some of them were higher than the fluke of being naturally gifted.

San deserved to be here but he didn’t know if he could make it. Most of these people had training, they knew techniques and technicalities that were taught with thousand dollar lessons in foyers. And at this point, he believed that there were probably weird instrument cults that had dinner parties on Wednesdays behind secret doors like the coffee shop in the dorm.

San eyed the cathedral- he didn’t _think_ it was a religion based school?

“It’s for looks,” Mingi noted, taking him around a fountain with a goddess wrapped in stone silk, “no one really uses it for orison, nor devotional.”

The stained glass windows were high and arched in a parabola that matched up with the evening sun. San could only imagine the plethora of rainbows inside that were too high up for his fingers to reach. He could imagine the early morning hours that spotlighted through, creating passings of a mini-universe on the walls. 

“Is it typically empty?” San inquired as he turned around to look at it one last time, the ballerina in his head leaping with melody. The strings were soft and had a gentle staccato- he would have to write that down later to play. He couldn’t wait to get into a proper practice room.

“Not the top floor.”

“The top floor?”

Mingi looked back at it too and his face was unreadable. “A few kids I know of..” he trailed off. 

San tilted his head as Mingi gestured to another building that San had a class in. 

“What do they do?”

“Whatever they want, they’re rich.”

“You’re being vague,” San frowned, “do they like, party or something?”

“No. They destroy property, bat their eyelashes at professors for a pass, and think they’re better than everyone else”- Mingi brought San back to the front of the tall, brick dorm building- “and drag anyone down that is a threat.”

“How?”

“Jung Wooyoung’s father and Kang Yeosang’s mother.”

San raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to know who they are or-”

Mingi laughed, “-if you want to keep your precious scholarship, yeah. Jung Wooyoung’s dad is a five-time Academy Award winner for his scores, Kang Yeosang’s mother is a three-time Oscar recipient.”

San felt like throwing up into the impossibly pristine rose bush by his scuffed converse. He felt _sick_ and swore the music in his head stopped. Mingi only pressed his lips together and leaned against the column of the grand stone steps and he patted the gargoyle’s head affectionately. San watched the impassive face of the statue as his world felt like it was smacked off the axis, straight into a black hole.

Okay, so, San was incredibly out of his comfort zone here. Why did he even _audition_? _How_ did he even make it in?

“You’re freaking out.”

“A little,” San wheezed out. He took a deep breath and he allowed himself to pause and gather himself back down to the tiny little earth they inhabited. San knew he was going into some shit going here, but to turn down a full-ride scholarship to the _best_ music school in the world, to Ashira, the place that could guarantee him connections and a place to compose? He would be a fucking fool, an absolute imbecile to take away his chance of making his dream come true. San had to repeat to himself-

_I am here for a reason_

“On the bright side,” Mingi shifted to his other foot and pointed a smug finger in his direction, “there are tons of other famous children from the world of music here, so you don’t have to exclusively worry about Jung Wooyoung and Kang Yeosang.”

“W-what would they do exactly, if they felt threatened?”

This time, Mingi looked nervous. “Take you in, make you feel special…” he trailed off, but then continued,”-treat you like a friend, then take everything away from you.”

“But you said there were a few of them so…?”

“Oh,” he laughed, “ _they’re_ all friends and whatnot. All six of them are platonic soulmates, but even then it’s not a guarantee that they won’t undermine you.”

San blanched in horror, feeling even more stiff and nauseous than before. “They would do that to their own soulmates? And they have _six_ platonic soulmates?”

That was pretty much unheard of. Most people have two platonic soulmates in their lifetime and it wasn’t exactly a rule necessarily to not have more than two, but to cross your platonic soulmate? That was to break a bond that was never meant to be broken. The older generations believed heavily in the idea of fate and the saying, “ _break the tattoo, be taboo”_ and it was ingrained in everyone’s brain born after the eighteenth century, universally. San’s generation seemed to be the ones that broke the idea of soulmates and here and there, you could find young people who rejected the idea of kindred souls. Nowadays, the younger generation believed in friendships of any mark. 

San wasn’t really for sure about what he believed in, because like he said, he has never had anything like a friend.

Mingi snorted and tossed San’s now empty coffee cup that he forgot he was even holding in the trashcan. His rosy cold cheeks scrunched and his face looked bitter, like he was remembering something that left the taste of acid underneath his tongue. San had only known Mingi for a very short time but the man seemed to be an open book with his expressions. Maybe that was how people took advantage of him (being that his eyes told everything). The sky was cloudy above them and night time was creeping over their shoulders, but it was like Mingi shook it off when he met San’s eyes.

“If their platonic soulmate is in the way of maximum profit and success to be made? Definitely.”

San felt chills run down his spine and it wasn’t the winter air that hung thick in his lungs, clinging to his ribs for stability. “So if they’re all friends, platonic soulmates, _and_ they know they are capable of crossing each other… how do they trust one another?” 

A bell tower chimed eight times in the distance and San watched as a flock of white birds flew above them in a scurry, heading South. He couldn’t help but feel like the stragglers that came in behind the group, dropping alarmingly low to the ground in descrescendo. Gravity may not let him float, but it couldn’t stop him from creating wings. Someday he would catch flight and his wings would snap like a rubber band and he would soar. 

He would soar higher and higher and higher until he decided that he wanted to touch the earth’s floor. He wasn’t going to let gravity make that decision, he was going to land with a perfect form, and his caged voice free. 

“They know not to overstep their boundaries and they know their place when it comes to respect for those who have a higher privilege than them.”

“But, aren’t they all privileged?”

“No. Soulmates don’t care for social status, affluence, or if your Hermès Himilaya Birkin is _really_ Swarovski. Their youngest is a scholarship student doing basketball.”

“But this is a music school?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand, he definitely got in for his virtuoso. But the scholarship is for basketball, as the extravagant love their sports, you know. Not to mention, dance students are also a part of Ashira. We’re almost like a regular university, I suppose.”

San felt like his head was going to roll off.

San spluttered, eyes beginning to throb in his skull rhythmically. “So does _everyone_ know these things about them?”

“Pretty much, they’re bastards," he said in a flippant tone suddenly.

San got the hint and understood that Mingi seemed finished with the conversation. He absently rubbed the remnants of his platonic soulmate mark, like his mind was anywhere but the outside of the brick building. San was beginning to think that Mingi knew the group rather personally. It didn’t take much to read the look on his face that he observantly noted earlier. He tried not to stare at the absence of his mark considering it was pretty rude to look at something so shamed in history. San felt the familiar itch of his soulmate tattoo on the back of his shoulder and he pushed the urge to clutch it away. 

San let himself wonder if Mingi had a soulmate tattoo on his body too. 

He felt lucky to have both a platonic and romantic etching in his skin, considering some had none and had to deal with the crushing reality that there was not a single soul _meant_ for you in the entirety of the cosmos. The elder generation often looked away from those unmarked, believing that those who were bare didn’t have a purpose. He didn’t know if Mingi’s faded soulmate mark was translucent because Mingi chose to sever the bond, or if he was forced by a betrayal that broke fate entirely. 

San wanted to shudder at the thought of deception so bottomless that it sucked a destiny and eonic ties empty.

What did the graveyard of ancient soulmate bonds broken look like?

  
  
  


While Mingi brought him back up to his room, San padded behind him like a little duck, his sweater clutched tightly to his chest and his eyes doing jetés up the spiral steps.

The building still felt unfamiliar and he eyed every peculiar door like it was holding a secret meeting of elites or harmless coffee shops. San didn’t think he was ever really going to get used to it- it, being, the prestige of it all. African blackwood double doors, neo-gothic structured buildings that were styled from eclectic revivals _before_ Queen Victoria’s reign, Mansard Rooves, and lancet windows that were so sharp they could slice through the chilled air; these were all an anomaly to Choi San.

(He only knew all of this because Mingi had smushed it into his brain with great enthusiasm and he genuinely seemed excited to talk about the architectural wonders and price tags of the university… even if San didn’t really know what all those words truly meant. What does eclectic revival even mean?)

San was now staring at himself in the mirror on the wall, taking in the appearance of the uniforms. If he was being honest, he didn’t know he could look this… _tasteful_. It made his body feel all weird and like he really wasn’t himself. The ballerina in his head stopped swaying with the music and she let out a soft hum. He understood why Ashira University required uniform. It not only made everyone look sharp enough to be taken seriously, the logo on the right side of the fitting blazer was a sign of belonging and pride. San wondered how many music students were wishing to be wearing the very jacket he had on.

“ _You can wear a solid colored sweater underneath the blazer instead of the white button up during the winter semester._ ”

_Mingi demonstrated on himself. He showed San how to roll up his sleeves fashionably, bringing the sweater into a neater cuff that revealed Mingi’s strong forearms and slender wrists. Mingi pulled a pair of tight looking slacks from the pile and he smiled for the second time that evening._

_“These,” he shook the wrinkles out with one great big smack, “are quite the hoot around here.”_

_“Meaning?”_

_“Try them on.”_

San was alone in the room, staring at his ass which should have _not_ been that prominent in the slacks.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to himself in the quiet of his room. 

San managed to also convince Mingi to give him his number. His luck had been striking pretty true recently and he wasn’t sure how long this would last.

“ _What if I need your help?”_

_“Figure it out,” Mingi grumbled. Then, he handed San his phone somewhat begrudgingly with narrowed, stern eyes._

_“Do not,” he pointed a finger in San’s direction before he left his room, hanging on the door, “text me at two in the morning because of some stupid shit.”_

San snapped a picture of his ass in the slacks in the reflection of the mirror and sent it to Mingi, not really caring about the consequences of Mingi’s wrath. What was he gonna do, scowl at him with his puppy dog eyes?

  
  


**_San; 2:43am:_ ** **[image attached] Shouldn’t these fit a little looser?**

**_Mingi; 2:43am:_ ** **I will throw you off the bell tower and hide your screams underneath the hourly bells**

He snorted and tossed his phone on the bed as he slipped off his shoes. Not even three minutes later, his phone buzzed and the screen lit up.

**_Mingi; 2:46am_** **: Told you it was a hoot**

  
  


San only smiled to himself and took off the rest of his uniform to put it gently on the chair by the fireplace.

The fucking _fireplace._

He shook off his awe and tried to run through the day coming up ahead. His first class was at 11 o’clock just slightly past the cathedral, so he had time to sleep in a little and leave early so he could make it on time. Afterward, San wanted to explore it before his next class at 3 in the afternoon. (Also, if he were to get nervous he would have time to throw up in the rose bushes) Classes had only begun two weeks ago but San was sure that he was already _years_ behind the little freshmen. He pushed the thought away with a quick shoulder check to his cloud bubble.

San caught a glimpse of his soulmate tattoo on the smooth part of his shoulder blade and allowed himself to glance over it. A tiny and simple black umbrella rested comfortably and sometimes it itched, like he was getting closer to them. That feeling though, was never proven. Some had said that they knew without looking at the mark, when they met their soulmate. The older generation claimed that maybe there was a strong liking, but never an inkling or love at first sight.

Part of it, San found romantic. Platonic soulmate tattoos (or marks) were always in the same visible spot- the junction between the thumb and pointer finger. But, soulmate tattoos (or, once again, marks) were typically in areas not seen and many had found their soulmate through intimacy or flashes of skin. 

San traced the top of the umbrella with his right finger, resting it over the top of his shoulder, and took a deep breath. He really didn’t know what love was going to feel like, and he never really knew what it was like to have a friend. Both of his marks were attached to him and made up who he was, and that left San terrified to wake up one day with all of his marks gone. His marks, his violin, the music box ballerina in his ears- were all things that made Choi San, Choi San. If he had ever lost any of those things, he would simply cease to exist.

This world was harsh and unforgiving, and it never let him forget that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twt: @wooyoungies
> 
> Mingi kinda sexy 😳


	2. Silent as ever while the bronze voice reads aloud

**_“I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart.” - The Wizard of Oz_ **

  
  
  
  


Somewhere across campus, Jung Wooyoung was bored out of his fucking mind.

Park Seonghwa sat next to him on the ground, stretching his legs out as far as they could go. He sat up straight then leaned forward to drop into a comfortable split. Wooyoung watched intently.

“Stretch a little further.”

Seonghwa glanced up into the studio mirror in front of them and he glared. Wooyoung only rolled his eyes and crouched down behind Seonghwa to push his shoulders forward, splitting his long legs open more. The older boy squawked and waved Wooyoung away with flying limbs to curl into a round, fetal shape.

“Fuck off, not everyone can forget they have balls.” His voice was high and incredulous. 

Wooyoung snorted and he stood up to smack the back of Seognhwa’s dark fluffy hair. Seonghwa screeched and he swiftly turned to grab at Wooyoung’s ankles, but he was faster and he gleefully skipped away.

“You wouldn’t even know what balls were if they slapped you in the face,” he replies curtly as he easily slides into the split that Seonghwa had been spending two hours perfecting. Of course, to any other eye that was untrained to the technicalities of dance, they would have looked perfect and their positions something like impossible similarity. Though, Wooyoung knew better.

Seonghwa sat up with a grin. “Why, Wooyoung, are you saying that you know what that feels like?”

“Like Yeosang’s balls aren’t constantly in your mouth.”

“Boo,” Seonghwa replied throwing a sweat rag in his direction, “you need to find a new insult.”

“Insult? It shouldn’t be to you, considering he is your _soulmate_.”

Seonghwa giggled, “he is, isn’t he?”

“ _Boo_ ,” Wooyoung replied, mirroring Seonghwa just moments ago. The afternoon sun was bright and it looked falsely warm outside, but Ashira was never warm.

“Just because I have his balls in my mouth and my balls in his mouth-”

“- Seonghwa I’m not jealous of Mr. Pretty boy’s genitals in your mouth that never shuts the fuck up.”

He pouted and flicked a pointed foot playfully. “Have I become too predictable? Is this what you’re trying to tell me? Also, you could always join us.”

“First of all, no. Second, good thing I’m unpredictable. I’m going to sell you for millions, you’re worth more now that Mr. Prettyboy-”

“-Yeosang,” he corrected, “And you saying ‘no’ is predictable.”

Wooyoung continued ignoring him, “-is attached to you. You’ll do great for the headlines too, I can see it so clearly, ‘ _Park Seonghwa, Son of Park Fashion’s Creator, Oscar recipient Kang’s son’s soulmate kidnapped and sold to underground trades for a singular corn chip’_ would be a hit.”

“I thought you would sell me for millions?”

“I already have that so I decided to humiliate you, makes things fun.”

Seonghwa scowled. “I am actually mildly offended.”

“Half a corn chip.”

“Wooyoung.”

“One _fourth_ of a corn chip-”

“- _Wooyoung!_ ” Seonghwa said with indignation.

A basketball hurled their way and narrowly missed their heads as it slammed against the floor, rolling to a stop in front of the mirror, breaking up their fight. They both turned to complain, already knowing who the culprit was. Nobody had such precise aim like that and nobody would be stupid enough to bring a fucking basketball into a dance studio. Or, smart enough actually.

“Wooyoung stop telling Seonghwa you’re going to sell him to an underground trade for a corn chip.” Jongho and a gleeful looking Yunho walked up to them. Jongho snatched his ball back into his hands and he tucked it neatly underneath his arm in one motion. Seonghwa tried to paw it out of his hands with grabby fingers from the ground but Jongho kneed him out of the way with a giggle.

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes at the two. Jongho was crisply dressed, his black sweater going well with the tan in his skin, and Yunho complimented him well with his matching sweater. They had been gifts from Yeosang last Christmas.

“Well, look at you two being all matchy matchy!” Seonghwa said this while making mock kissy faces in their direction. Yunho scowled and Seonghwa finally took his chance to drag someone down to the ground with him. He swiftly tugged on Yunho’s legs as he tried earlier with Wooyoung and he brought him down to the floor. Yunho tried to protest but he was soon wrapped in Seonghwa’s arms and he gave up lamely, shrugging at Wooyoung like it wasn’t a choice.

It really wasn’t though, Seonghwa was needy. 

“I tried to tell Jongho to change,” Yunho said with a pout on his rose shaded lips, tugging up on the corners. Wooyoung rolled his eyes and Jongho followed suit.

Wooyoung went back to annoyance and he once more zeroed his eyes in on the two. “And _why_ are you both in the dance studio?”

“Well, you’re not gonna believe us.”

Seonghwa stroked Yunho’s arms. “You couldn’t have texted us?”

Yunho answered. “You wouldn’t have answered anyway, you’re both never on your phones while you’re in here. Yeosang could have _us_ sold to an underground trade for a corn chip and moved across the country before you two would check your phone while practice is in session.”

Seonghwa squinted, eyes a bit defeated. “Point taken.”

“Speaking of point,” Wooyoung added while standing up to brush off his joggers, “can you two get to it?”

“You’re so graceful and mannered, Wooyoung, the queen would be stunned,” Jongho said with a sigh. “Anyway, Yeosang had class with the new student Choi San-”

“-Scholarship guy?” 

“Yeah, apparently he is in Yeosang’s violin placement class.”

Wooyoung titled his head.

_A scholarship student managed that?_

Yunho added in, also standing up, pulling Seonghwa’s curious body with him by the arm. “Of course Yeosang heard that he was going to be in there without any previous prerequisites so he was just bubbling with curiosity.”

“ _Without_ any prerequisites?” Seonghwa said with shock lacing his voice, eyes widened a bit more. “So, we’re assuming it’s pure talent?”

“It couldn’t be money. Yeosang couldn’t find anything on San’s family besides that they’re just lower class and San hadn’t had any previous schooling or lessons for the violin exclusively.”

Wooyoung grinned. “This is interesting. I’m assuming Yeosang was fuming?”

“A bit. Don’t look too joyful in Yeosang’s distress, Jung Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung only waved his hand airly and dismissed their looks of distaste. Jongho bounced his ball on the edge grain maple floors and Wooyoung smoothly kicked the annoyance towards the doors- and, alas, Jongho’s reflexes were remarkable but Wooyoung’s dancer legs were a steeper competition. They were some of the best dancing limbs the world had seen in a while.

The ball flung itself forward, making Jongho groan- he grinned wickedly.

“ _Anyway_ , I will never finish this fucking story-”

“-Yeosang found out that San is our eigh- seventh soulmate.” Jongho finished for Yunho, cheeks a little red from his slip up of almost including _him_. 

The silence was overwhelming and Seonghwa quickly glanced over at Wooyoung to gauge his reaction. Wooyoung tried to ignore their eyes and he quietly dropped back down to do his cool down stretches as the rest discussed among themselves. Wooyoung felt his mind rushing and he wanted to sling his shoes beyond the room, exactly into the mirror. But, no matter the rumors about Wooyoung and his prestige attitude that didn’t care about others, he would never do that. The dance mirror was something he didn't feel like making a call about. Also, he was known to keep his cool _too_ much and be too unreactive.

Their initial silence wasn’t distaste, of course, they were most likely excited to meet him. It was to assess Wooyoung’s reaction who was most likely _not_ excited to meet the unique boy.

“Yeosang said he was absolutely gorgeous.”

Seonghwa snorted. 

“Easy there lover boy, don’t get too jealous.”

Seonghwa giggled. “I’m not worried about that, I don’t mind sharing. I’m referring to the fact that he isn’t too shocked at the sheer number of soulmates that we have, but ready to discuss the looks of our new one.” 

“It’s _Yeosang_ ,” replied Yunho with emphasis, “I never know what he is going to do next.”

“Hopefully me,” Seonghwa returned quickly, obviously proud of himself.

Not that Wooyoung would have laughed anyway, but his mood was even more sour than normal. He didn’t like being in an overly bitter mood before he left to dance in secret tonight and he knew that Yeosang was going to bring him to the cathedral for a proper introduction. Which, Yeosang would never let him leave early if they were meeting this ‘San’, never in a million years. He could already imagine Yeosang smiling through perfect teeth with his pinky out on his teacup. _“Wooyoung,”_ he would say. _“Aren’t you forgetting our guest?”_

Not that San was going to be guest, he was now a permanent resident. If, he decided to stay anyway. 

It wasn’t like Mingi did. 

  
  
  
  
  


The ballerina that danced in San’s head began at the age of five. 

It perplexed his parents, as this was the age your soulmate marks came forth to their world with their shining promises of fate and love bonds that wrapped around souls. His parents were ecstatic and proud that he had two- his platonic and love- but, they were soon filled with a damper spirit at the thought of their only son being potentially peculiar.

“I hear voices and music and there is a pretty dancer in my head and the song is so nice and and and -” wasn’t exactly something parents wanted to hear their child say with pride and beaming eyes. San’s doctor had just brushed it off as imaginary friends and a knack for music. On the bright side, he was partially right. 

(Even though San’s dad still says that the ballerina is an imaginary friend)

The day his figure eight tattoo and umbrella made their debut into the world, a slow soft melody began in his turning in his head too. It was so saccharine and filled clouds with glimmers, resembling the _dings_ and _tings_ of carousels at fairs, that San had begun to cry and he tugged on his mom’s pant leg to sob about the wonders of the music before him. She had only raised an eyebrow and squatted down to his level to brush his bangs back with a twist in her mouth.

“What music?”

“The one in my head!”

San’s fingers itched to dance and tap like rain on their roof that calmed him at night and he often jumped along with the ballerina to it. His parents thought it was quite sweet, but they couldn’t help but worry… just a _bit_. The ballerina wasn’t actually physically there- well _, of course_ , but she felt so _real_ in his mind. She would dance for San when he couldn’t and she would en pointe, then turn into her pirouette during the grand crescendos of the piece and melody. He found that she comforted him more than real people and she knew what the tones and subjects were going to be before it even began to play.

As he got older, he didn’t tell people that she was still there. Of course, his parents still had an inkling and narrowed suspicion that she still resided comfortably on sixteenth notes and melodies, but they let it pass because San seemed normal enough. And he was a music prodigy.

San liked to thank the music in his head for that.

The itch he felt in his fingertips when the music would play in his head was the drive that pulled him towards his first instrument. The piano at his grandmother’s house.

The piano was made of maple and cheap plastic keys, but it still worked well enough for San to put the music from his mind to the world around them. He had sat in front of it and tapped random keys that made his fingers curl and his skin creep with bumps and chills. It was so thrilling, so wondrous, so intoxicating, that his parents let him stay the night at his grandmother’s because he refused to leave the piano. 

He clinked at keys all night and his grandmother had let him, happily letting him indulge in the one thing his grandfather left behind before he passed. The keys were no longer dusty, though they were out of tune and needed replacing. He was only 11, but he was slamming out seven minute self composed pieces that had complexities and rhythms that seemed phantom and out of touch. His grandmother had once put it as- “it’s messy, it’s full, and it’s lively.”

She was right, they were messy and nonsensical but it was music and there were aspects to it that just made _sense_. It wasn’t until his grandmother pulled out a violin from his grandfather’s closet that the world came together to make perfect harmony. His grandmother had whispered, “ _let’s go!_ ” to him at the family dinner and whisked him away to the back of the house, deep in the uttermost corner of the tiny home. She had warmly held his hand and opened up a tiny closet door that held several coats and random items. He remembers a toy clown falling to their feet.

San’s grandmother didn’t let go of things easily, she held onto everything that once touched her family's skin.

She giddily laughed and pulled out an expensive looking case made of leather and she held it so gently that San held his breath.

“This,” she said as she sat it on the bed and opened it gingerly, “is yours.”

San could only gape at the strings and sloping curves at the instrument in front of him. It was like the ballerina and music in his mind had crashed off the stage and lost feeling in her legs and harmony. The music was so quiet and the dancer was so still that San imagined they were frozen in time and limbo. 

He carefully reached forward and let his finger graze the wood and slide over the dips of the center bout. San watched as the wood reflected off the yellowish dingy light of his grandmother’s ceiling and he picked it up in his hands. The violin was a little too big, as it was an adult violin, but he still found his hands holding it eagerly. 

San couldn’t find the words to describe to his grandmother about how just _right_ it felt and how everything seemed to make sense now. He felt that the world was brighter, that the kaleidoscopic carousel beams in his head weren’t as harsh, and that he didn’t feel as afraid of the sounds around him. The universe didn’t feel as _loud_ and overstimulating.

For a while, looking back, he thought that this revelation was so profoundly insane and out there, but then he remembered- their world had marks that intertwined souls for eons and through the twists of fate and alternative universes… why _couldn’t_ he feel this way?

  
  
  
  


San had plans of sleeping in, but those were quickly crashed between two cymbals when his nerves decided to keep him up all night. He was once reminded of how he felt as a child when he would start a new school year having to navigate through new halls and new people. The anxiety of it all got better as he got older but now he was back to square one. He held his stupid plushie a bit tighter, stopped staring at the tall ceiling above him, and he pulled himself out of bed. Today was a new day. He could do this.

_I deserve to be here. I deserve to be here._

His first class was at eleven and it was only seven-thirty. His phone screen seemed to mock him and his lips pursed at the numbers that blinked at him.

_7:31am_

He _supposes_ that meant he had time to grab coffee downstairs and go to one of the practice rooms to warm up before class. He wanted to get as much time in as he could with his violin before classes because he would hate to go in with cold fingers and strings. Without warming up, San felt completely lost. 

He slid on a navy sweater underneath his blazer, letting it be on the thicker side of material because the frost on the window was very telling of what it felt like outside, even if the full bloom of gardenias posed it as different. And, campus was _massive_ so he knew he would be out in the cold quite often. He stared at himself in the mirror and watched as the morning sun rose and lit the room on fire with gold and whites. He let himself feel around him and he tried to stretch out the tight slacks a bit more by doing ridiculous squats, but he soon stopped afraid that his ass would rip a comedic hole on the first day. 

His stomach was turning in knots as he got his coffee and the lady running the register didn’t do anything to ease the butterflies that were currently dry heaving and clashing together in dizzy circles.

“Ah! New boy!”

San switched to leaning on his other foot awkwardly. “That’s… me?”

He glanced at her name tag that read “MARIE” in bold black letters as she cackled and spun her grey hair into a quick bun, punching in San’s total on the register.

“We don’t see too many new ones here, are you a freshman, boy? How are you in the upperclassmen halls?”

“Oh no, I’m a Junior.”

She raised her thin brows and she chuckled, “Good luck with that.”

San felt a bit miffed and he grumpily handed her his card and got his coffee.

 _Annoying hag_ he thought to himself as he sipped his drink. 

He once again was convinced that the sugar was imported from heaven or at least dipped in mortal ambrosia that's safe for consumption. He pulled the coffee cup from his lips, much like yesterday, and he looked at the drink and shook his head in awe. San could only imagine how the campus food tasted- they wouldn’t dare feed celebrity children anything less than delicates and greasy quick food. 

Did they even have a food court on campus? 

San supposes he should be thinking about other aspects of Ashira but he couldn’t help but inquire about the food. He looked at the time- it was only eight. 

On the way to the practice rooms, he let his eyes wander around him, fully taking it in without feeling the heavy eyes of Mingi. The roses still had frost on them but the daybreak star was melting the individual crystals off in a slow manner, leaving a dew behind. San let himself trace a wet crimson petal and he smiled to himself.

The practice _building_ , yes, they had an entire building dedicated to practicing, was large and vaguely resembled the cathedral across campus. Lancet windows that were stained and churned were high and shiny and San got excited thinking about studying and playing in rooms that held the windows. The bushes were gone but replaced with large dogwood trees (that shouldn’t have been blooming during winter) and heavy double oaked doors. He felt dizzy just looking at the tall structure.

San was expecting someone to check him in at the practice rooms like his old university, but no one was to be found except for the ID station. He walked up to it to read the paper next to the sleek touch screen pad. 

_Please touch your ID card to the pad beside the screen when you enter the building. When you leave, do the same to checkout._

San guessed it was just an honor system, because behind the circular area were doors that were opened to reveal several instruments and parts to instruments. There were more papers and rules explaining how to use the rooms.

_You may use the instruments and parts provided to practice as you wish. They can leave the building but you must contact the number attached to receive permission. PLEASE FOLLOW THE RULES STATED_

San walked across the linoleum as his shoes clicked rhythmically and he peeked inside the room of violins and tried not to faint. 

Lined up on black walls underneath bronze theatre lights were an array of One Piece Back Maestro Stradi, D Z Models, Peter White Guarneri, Valerio Prillipco’s, and Franco Merlo’s. He could almost feel the ebony chinrests underneath his jaw and the steel gut-core strings that reverberate sounds worthy of Koncerthuset and Berlin Philharmonic Hall. San could see that the body of the violins were not two halves joined together, they were single pieces of wood that had been most likely left to season years before they were made. He almost drooled at the concave C-bouts that dipped, covered in a deep red varnish of walnut and linseed.

The fact that Choi San could take one of these violins back to his dorm or around campus spoke volumes of just what he was getting in. He tried not to imagine himself tripping with one of the beauties in his hand. Just the thought of breaking one was enough to make him feel even more sick.

Clutching his own trusty violin closer to his body, he headed upstairs to the practice rooms. As he walked up he could hear several other instruments humming through the halls as they bounced off hanging baffles. He found a tiny corner room and quickly hurried inside shutting the heavy door behind him. He could see outside the glass window- he looked down at the ground below and the campus that was sprawled out densely before him. San pulled his own violin out and sat on the cushioned chair, straightening his back. 

The melody was soft in his mind and the ballerina was quietly dancing to herself as he warmed up his hands. The room was pillowed and padded with acoustic foam to catch the sound in gentle arms. San let himself play.

  
  
  
  


His first class came soon enough and he found himself sitting stiffly in a chair. The classroom was everything he imagined it to be, but he was surprised to find that there seemed to be a mini library behind him as the entire wall was an arching case of books and documents. Music sheets, maybe?

The class began filling up rather quickly and he tried to look as unbothered and confident as he could, but he didn’t really know why he felt the need. These people were just like him, people who believed in music. San _reasons_. But, like the world surely turns and twirls, San was a new kid and eyes were on him. Not that he thinks that it would be any different. Also, he noted that the students were _gorgeous_. They all had the same uniform except for the girls’ skirts, but somehow everything they wore looked better on them than San. Like, _all_ of them. 

Compared to San’s boring black loafers that he _thought_ were sleek, their shoes were those of Giuseppe Zanotti and Hermès Paris. He suddenly felt very tiny and wished that he could just become part of the ancient bookshelf that blended into the background because at least no one was staring at it and reading the pages. 

San was still ignoring their stares as he was turning his pegs to tune when another student walked in. This one boy was particularly stunning, sticking out like a sore thumb as he graced everyone with his presence- a part of his hand twinged in an aching manner. San tried to immediately look away. He knew that this guy just _radiated_ an absolute air of confidence but San’s eyes seemed to betray him as they tried to take him in. 

His hair was dyed a frosty blonde that reminded San of Armand de Brignac champagne and his eyes were a deep startling amber that matched the bracelet around his wrist. He didn’t look long enough to catch more details, he didn’t feel like starting off on the wrong foot already to be known as the poor kid who stares at shiny things.

The others seemed just as enthralled by the boy’s looks as San was- which he found comfort in. Though, the boy didn’t have a problem staring at _him_ when his eyes caught San’s _._ It was almost as if he was searching for San like he already knew he was going to be here. 

_What’s up with this guy? Why is he heading this way? Oh fucking hell-_

San’s cheeks flushed as the guy plopped right next to him and then out of his peripheral vision he saw the long arm reach towards him-

San flinched back in his seat-

but all he did was straighten _San’s_ music stand- which he found really odd but it was all so fast and overwhelming and he was too shocked to comprehend talking, or even looking at him, really. He felt like this was high school all over again and he let the humiliation of some rich kid messing with his stuff settle in. San wasn’t sure what to do exactly or know how he was supposed to react so he chose the option to ignore him. He thinks this upset the guy, all eyes were on him.

“Hello.”

San peered quietly at the boy in front of him and he tried not to let his face flush. Seriously, what the fuck were they eating because this guy was considerably _stunning_ up close and San figured that his parents had to be models for Renta or Louis. San was still staring at the boy and he finally found his voice, and he replied though suspicion laced his voice.

“Hello,” San said.

The boy smiled and San was sure he looked _dumb_ just sitting there with his busted up violin case. The boy’s eyes flickered down his body quickly and he held his hand out politely, silver banded rings with deep engravings littered his dainty fingers. San pictured they were made of thin china and rubies for fingernails.

_Of course, he has manners._

“I’m Kang Yeosang”- San felt the last of his nerves shoot up his spine and through his teeth that were now stiffly clenched together so the butterflies wouldn’t escape in a flurry.

_“No. They destroy property, bat their eyelashes at professors for a pass, and think they’re better than everyone else”- Mingi brought San back to the front of the tall, brick dorm building- “and drag anyone down that is a threat.”_

_“How?”_

_“Jung Wooyoung’s father and Kang Yeosang’s mother.”_

_San raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to know who they are or-”_

_Mingi laughed, “-if you want to keep your precious scholarship, yeah. Jung Wooyoung’s dad is a five-time Academy Award winner for his scores, Kang Yeosang’s mother is a three-time Oscar recipient.”_

_San felt like throwing up into the impossibly pristine rose bush by his scuffed converse._

-”You must be the new violinist, Choi San?”

Why didn’t Mingi tell him that Kang Yeosang was also a violinist?

San composed himself. 

_Just survive, San_

“Yes. That’s me.” San smiled, taking Yeosang’s soft hand, and hoped it didn’t look awkward as he tried (forced) to let his friendly dimple poke out. Yeosang laughed a quiet giggle and San found himself understanding the charm Yeosang held. He could only imagine that Yeosang was probably the perfect child, posing beautifully in family photos with marbled backgrounds.

“I’m assuming you’re quite talented if you’re in Professor Lucciola’s class.” Yeosang sounded curious, but still a matter of fact.

“Aren’t we all if we’re in Ashira?”

Yeosang thought this was funny and his hand gently touched on San’s arm. He noted that his eyes crinkled when he laughed and that his laughter was incredibly soft. San could see where Yeosang could be dangerous, as his demeanor was airy and light, even though Mingi said it was the opposite and that he liked to let things crumble around him without consequence.

“Maybe so. But haven’t you heard the rumors, dear?”

_Dear?_

“Um. Is this a trick question?”

Yeosang shook his head. “No, not quite.”

“What are you referring to?”

“That a lot of us in here are in for our money.”

San snorted, feeling brave, since Yeosang wanted to start off this way. What an odd conversation they were already having. “Money is all people seem to think about around here. I figure there is a genuine talent, right? Can’t money buy lessons?”

Yesoang smiled. “Absolutely. And, you’re right, this place seems to thrive off its reputation and mention.” He tilted his head slyly and he poked San’s arm (he was very touchy) and he replied. “You caught on already and it’s only your first day. Although, this class could say that we have a knack for the violin.”

“Why do you say that?” San asked, genuinely curious. Yeosang beamed, glad that San asked.

“You can only take it if you’ve passed _all_ the other violin courses here, including having your own recital. But…” Yeosang seemed to muse to himself, “... you’re new, so there’s no way you have taken the other courses. Unless you proved to the judges that you didn’t have to take them?”

This was news to San and he could only shrug numbly. His audition was only a blank memory to him and it felt like it was over in a bat of a sweeping eyelash that laced Yeosang’s eyes. The try-out day was so incredibly nerve wracking that San didn’t eat for two days before and he couldn’t sleep for days as the date crawled closer to him on his phone screen. 

When he had sat in front of them with his wobbly music stand and scuffed violin case, he had felt his body create a steadiness that had never come over him before. The ballerina and music in his head were deathly still and his fingers flew over the neck in a crash of crescendo. 

Before he knew it, the audition was over. 

San remembers their faces and the shock playing over their sturdy brows- and he especially remembers the woman judge’s lips that turned into a smirk of awe. He had received news the next day that he was granted a _full_ ride scholarship.

“I guess I played well enough,” San said with a smile, trying to play himself off as a clueless boy who knew nothing of the world of music. He could imagine Mingi giving him a pat on the back but that daydream cloud was swiftly kicked away with a _poof_ because Yeosang didn’t seem too convinced. It only took San seconds to realize that Yeosang had weaseled information out of him by being so direct.

“Don’t be so modest, San. That’s pretty impressive. Our Wooyoungie did the same with his dancing.”

_Jung Wooyoung_

Right, how could’ve San forgotten that Yeosang had _five_ other platonic soulmates?

“He must be very talented.” San went back to tuning his violin, carefully listening 

“Indeed,” replied Yeosang, pulling out his violin with a sigh, “too talented for his own good and-” he cut off abruptly and his fingers were frozen on the pegs. San looked to see that he was staring at his platonic mark- Yeosang’s perfect doll features masking shock and his composure had looked like it slipped.

San instinctively went to cover his mark but Yeosang snatched his hand, gripping it gently. San looked at Yeosang’s cold fingers that were clutching his and his eyes caught the mark between the juncture of his thumb and pointer. That’s weird, it looked just like-

_Oh_

Oh… _oh_ no

_“Oh,” he laughed, “they’re all friends and whatnot. All six of them are platonic soulmates, but even then it’s not a guarantee that they won’t undermine you.”_

Well, make that seven.

**Author's Note:**

> twt: @wooyoungies


End file.
